


A truly terrible year

by marieincolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months, four colds and a truly terrible year for both our boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A truly terrible year

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** "After having four colds in as many months, Dean ends up in the hospital with a bad flu and/or pneumonia. Bonus angstyness, if you can make it fit: As if this isn’t bad enough, a doctor there suggests Dean should be on medication for depression." by anonymous over on the [Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme #6](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/608041.html)  
>  I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. I'm merely borrowing, and I'm certainly not making any money.

A truly terrible year.

Dean is really not having a good year, and Sam gets that. He totally does. It's just.. He hasn't had a very good year, either, and he still feels like he's holding onto his sanity with the kind of grip you have when your friend is hanging over the edge of a cliff and your hands are sweaty. Like he's stuck in that split second where you let go, and you _know_ it's not going to end well.

Still. He hangs on, even if it feels like Lucifer has a firm hold on his friend hanging over the cliff, clinging like a goddamned backpack from hell.

He grips the steering wheel firmly in his left hand, shifts in his seat and almost smiles to himself.

It's quiet and dark out where they're at. No houses, no turnoffs. Just an eternally long stretch of road. Dark forest, and dark asphalt. The Impala purrs, like this was what she was made to do. And because his brother is asleep in the passenger seat, he allows himself a split second of recognising just how _awesome_ this car is.

Dean snuffles wetly next to him, head hanging heavy and limp against the passenger side window. He's got that shiny new leather jacket pulled as close around himself as he can manage, folded over itself and held down by his crossed arms. His brow is furrowed, and Sam knows his brother feels like shit. He's spent almost every childhood illness he can think of with a feverish head leaning against the cold windows of the Impala. He gets it. He does, really. He does. Totally.

It's just.. It's been three months of him carrying bags. Fetching duffels, doing the research and digging graves with a brother who pretends to help, and does so with all the enthusiasm of someone who would rather be anywhere else. Three months of oppressing hotel rooms, wet coughs and snuffles in the night and red noses and a grown man who doesn't shower enough, doesn't laugh, doesn't want to do _anything._

He's pretty sure Dean is running a fever again, and though irritation and anger bubbles up inside him, and he can't help but hear _“You saved the fucking World!”_ echo through him, bouncing off his skull even as he wonders where he left their huge stock of NyQuil. Part of him, the tiny, narcissistic part of him that sours up his stomach when he acknowledges that it's even there, wants him to let Dean ride this out alone. Shouts that Dean isn't the only one run down and spent. That Sam needs some space too, dammit! Only his brother isn't coping, doesn't see the world around him or even himself right now, and while Sam, the _adult_ Sam, knows that, the ten year old inside him that's screaming for attention is throwing the biggest tantrum in the history of tantrums.

But Sam has run away more times than he can count. It's his defense mechanism. A fight breaks out, words are said that are too much, and Sam will fucking _leave._ Out of the two of them, he ran away from home more times than Dean cooked him dinner. _Not really._ The smell of scrambled eggs with little pieces of shell and ham from a tin seems to sneak up on him through two decades of pure shit, and just like that the fight leaves him. The epic shit that seems to haunt the both of them doesn't fucking matter, because _this. This shit right here._ This is what he went to hell for. Ordinary crap like colds, worries over wether or not they've still got that travel package of lotioned tissues somewhere in the back of the car. And Dean. Whatever Dean is, it's not something he's leaving behind. If this is the new normal, then he'll figure it out. He _will_ , even if he doesn't want to, sometimes.

Dean snuffles wetly against his collar again, shifts against the window with a small puff of air. There's another shift, and a cough breaks out. Dry, wheezy. Never ending. Sam grimaces in sympathy as Dean ends it on a gag, leans back with a panting heave that should only signify the end of a marathon, sweat glistening on his forehead.  
“You okay?” He asks tentatively, almost surprised to hear a completely normal voice escape him rather than the cartoon-Devil one he keeps expecting.  
“Yah.” Dean pants, rubbing at his face with both hands.  
“How long 'till we're there?”  
Sam frowns, because he doesn't think they even figured out a “there” yet. Dean's voice is weary, tired and scratchy, though, so he figures he should probably find one sooner rather than later.  
“Don't know yet.” he responds lightly, trying to inflect some of the sympathy he recently discovered hiding in a forgotten part of his brain.

Sam knows what his brother wants. He wants his bed, covers pulled up over his head and to be left alone until it all passes by and he can start drinking like it's going out of style again, and the taste of whiskey doesn't bring him to his knees in a coughing fit that ends in tears and puke. That's the _one good thing_ about this new, never ending epidemic Dean seems to be carrying around with him.

Dean doesn't drink as much.

He pulls up to a motel, slightly upscale from where they normally stay, but still the same kind of cheap, worn building they've been staying in for decades. Their room is on the second floor, and there's a staircase on the outside of the building. Dean doesn't seem to notice that Sam's got both their duffels over his shoulder, is busy heaving himself up the stairs. One hand trails the wall for balance while the other squeezes the corner of his eyes. His steps are heavy, clumsy against the steps as Sam walks behind him, scaling the stairs slowly. So _slowly._

Sam folds back the covers of both beds, duffles abandoned on the floor between them. He can hear Dean throwing up in the bathroom, paper thin walls and cracked plaster giving an illusion of privacy neither one of them care much about.

The first time Dean got sick, three months ago or so, Sam supposed it wasn't unexpected. Wet weather, exhaustion. A motherfucking _awful_ year behind them.  
The fever lasted three days, the cough lasted.. Well, Sam isn't sure how long it lasted. Doesn't keep track of these things.

The second time Dean got sick, Sam wrote it off like some kind of bad luck. Blamed it on the kid they'd saved from a violent spirit. He couldn't remember Dean even speaking to the tiny thing, but he supposes he must've, if he's sick again. In his head kids are like little contamination units walking around on two legs.  
His voice was gone for three days, fever raging for four. He doesn't know when it disappeared, and he doesn't know when the cough went away. It's not his business.

Really, all he knows about the cough is that it drives him insane.

The third time Dean got sick, Sam very nearly abandoned his brother at the motel. Practically did, throwing himself head first into a hunt for a poltergeist. Played good cop, bad cop and haunted PTSD hunter all at the same time, and spent less time inside the motel room with heavy, damp air that smelled of vomit and sickness than Dean did outside of it.

They stayed for almost a full week. Sam doesn't know if that's because that's how long the sickness lasted, or if it's just because he thought it was time to move on after the hunt was wrapped up neatly, haunted house cleansed and a family set free from their "terrible ordeal".

Dean sits in the car like he's ten years old and just lost his dog. Mopey and silent, wet sniffles and dry coughs against the sleeve of his coat, and Sam suspects that if he let his brother stay in bed a few days longer, Dean would've.

He's not entirely certain if this fourth cold is really a new bout of sickness, or the same one dragging out. In the end he supposes it doesn't matter much, not when his brother just reappeared from the bathroom with his t-shirt off and his jeans soaked through at the knees from kneeling on the wet floor of the bathroom. He's holding his t-shirt in one hand, is hiding his face in his elbow as he coughs. Sam can see the wet cotton from where he's standing, observes the wet tufts of hair poking out over the coughing elbow.  
“You all right?” He asks, not expecting an answer. His brother collapses into bed, panting again. His chest is pale, thinner than it normally is. His jeans, worn stiff and moulded to the shape of his body after years of wear are too big, loose around his waist and looking like they belong to someone else.

For as long as he can remember, Dean has never been skinny. Never thin. And yet, here he is, pale stomach without the normal six-pack with a soft, healthy layer of fat on top. Affection wells up in him at the sight of his brother, pale and feverish and sweaty on stiff, starched motel sheets, looking miserable and pathetic and sick, and he wonders why it's this particular sight that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy.

He unties Dean's boots, pulls a filthy pair of jeans down without unbuttoning them, and leaves his brother curled on his side without covers to grab his own shower.

He takes his own sweet time in the shower. Poor water pressure doesn't matter, because the water is warm, and his skin smells of soap when he finally turns it off. He shaves quietly, brushes his teeth and makes an attempt at easing the worst tangles out of his hair.

His brother is in the exact same position on the bed as when he left, but he's shivering now. Trembling. His face is grimaced as if in pain, but he's mumbling. Sam can't make out what it is, and sits down on the edge of the bed, puts one hand on his brother's shoulder, and feels heat pouring off the pale skin. Fever.  
“Dean? Did you take something for the fever?”

Dean doesn't even open his eyes, and Sam sighs. Better break out the NyQuil.

His newfound sympathy and re-discovered affection doesn't abandon him during the night, which is a good thing, because it's mainly spent sitting at the edge of his brother's bed, trying to ease out fevered dreams and nightmares. Dean coughs, and coughs. And _coughs_. Snuffles wetly, and then coughs. His breath is wheezy and laboured, and his ribs and stomach muscles join the effort of breathing sometime in the early morning hours. He's taken the maximum dosage of everything and anything Sam can dig out of their growing arsenal of cold medicine, and it's not helping.

He can't ask Dean how he feels, either, because Dean is delirious. His eyes roll confusedly in his head when Sam tries to get answers or information, and when Sam finally digs out the thermometer and stuff it under his brother's tongue, the constant coughing makes it almost impossible to get a read.  
Sam tries to ease Dean into keeping it in for long enough, waiting impatiently for the beep, and he can see Dean's chest heaving with held back coughs as they wait.  
“C-can't” Dean finally manages in a desperate sort of croak, the last part of the word mostly a part of a new cough, and NyQuil and cough syrup comes up in a mix of bile and water all over the sheets. Dean moans, but doesn't move away from the spreading puddle of pink goo around his face, doesn't even gag.  
“I'm taking you to the hospital if you don't get better soon, Dean.”  
Dean shrugs tiredly and coughs painfully again.

And that settles it for Sam, who bundles his brother up in sweats and thick socks, and carries said brother to the car. A feat made easier by the twenty or so pounds Dean has manages to lose all over the continental US.

He's driving recklessly, and he knows that, but there's a heavy head coughing against his shoulder, and the pained wheezes, the squeaky, thin voice that escapes when Dean tries to talk and the trembles he can feel all the way through to his spine breaks the speed limit for him. Like his feet are making the decisions for him, making sure the local hospital appears like a mirage in the desert before long.

He's got them parked, out of the car and inside the ER before Dean can manage to get upset over the fact that once again he's carried like a piece of luggage. Sam shouts at the ER nurse once he's crashed through the the front doors without banging Dean's head, and a stretcher appears for Dean who's whisked away like some trauma victim. Sam is handed papers, and his hands tremble with adrenaline that doesn't reflect the calm state of the people around him. People who treat all of this like it's no big deal that his brother, his big brother who can take on the apocalypse without breaking a sweat is shivering and coughing and puking and _drinking_.  
Sam feels like he's in over his head.

He renames them both. Sam and Dean Hansen. Then he scowls at his own lack of imagination and digs out the insurance card with the same name.. Has time to chug down a cup of coffee so sour and vile he might be the next patient in the ER before a doctor comes to fetch him.

Because Dean doesn't get to come home.

His brother is pale and thin in a gigantic hospital bed, thick duvet with flowers pulled up to his chest, and two arms with IV's running from his elbows. There's an oxygen mask whizzing away, damp with condensation from Dean's breathing, and Sam sinks into a chair at his brother's bedside while the doctor remains standing.

“Your brother has a severe case of pneumonia and bronchitis, Mr. Hansen. He should have gotten treatment a long time ago. We think we've caught it just in time, but he's in for a rough few days. His body is severely depleted at the moment, but we think he'll be all right.”

Sam nods, unable to take his eyes off the pale form sprawled in the bed before him.

“Now. You mention in the papers that your brother has a drinking habit?”

Sam nods, unabashed.

“And that he's lost a lot of weight recently?”

Sam nods again, tears his eyes away from his brother.

“And.. That he's been sick almost continuously for three months.”

Sam sighs. Sees the larger picture here.

“Yeah, uh. It's been a rough year, doc. Took me some time to figure myself out, too, you know?”

The doctor nods, looks understanding and patient. Dean's heart monitor beeps quietly and steadily.

“I will note your brother down for a psych consult when he regains some strength.”

Sam shrugs, because.. He's not the one who lacks faith in modern medicine. And to be honest, if modern medicine can pull his brother out from under cheap motel covers he's all for it.

It takes three days for Dean to come around. For the first two he's so out of it the doctors consider putting in a drain to keep his lungs clear, and he's an inch away from being put on a respirator. But he pulls through, full flow of oxygen and enough antibiotics to heal a horse coursing through his veins.  
Sam visits that third day. Or.. Comes back, because he's been here continuously, refusing to leave even when Dean was in the ICU for a night, no visitors allowed. Heavy lidded eyes blink up at him, and he's caught unaware while unwrapping his coffee and breakfast muffin on the little table next to the chair by the window.  
“Hey” He grins. A real grin, spreading from ear to ear, dimpled and too big. Dean twitches his lips just a little, but his eyes fold into crow's feet that tell him his brother is smiling.  
“You're awake.. How are you feeling?”  
Dean shrugs, his eyes focused on Sam's face.  
“You've got pneumonia. Pretty bad pneumonia, too. Did it properly. Why didn't you tell me you were this sick?”  
Dean shrugs again, and Sam knows it probably wouldn't have made a difference. For a moment they sport identical guilty faces.  
“It's no problem. We're the Hansen's, by the way.”

He sits quietly by Dean's bed for another hour before he's kicked out when a man in a grey sweater arrives. He talks to Dean for a long, long time. A long time. Sam is about to barge in and rescue his brother when the door finally opens, and he's invited inside. Dean looks flushed and a little feverish leaning back against his pillows, nasal cannula switched for a mask again. HIs eyes are droopy, and Sam assesses his brother's energy levels with just a look.

_Exhausted._

Sam can see his hands trembling in his lap.

“Dean and I have been talking”, Dr. Mitchell explains, and gestures to have Sam sit down.  
“And I gather it's been a rough few years for the two of you.”  
Sam nods, because.. Yeah.  
“Dean has explained that he's.. What did you say, _'out of juice'?”_  
Dean meets Sam's eyes, and Sam smiles carefully back. Nods, and feels like the world settles in that split second.

There's a slight pause. “I'm going to put Dean on some antidepressants. He tells me you travel around a lot?”  
“Yeah, we.. Yeah.”  
“I recommend that you settle down for a little while at least. Try to work out a routine of sorts, keep to the same doctor to keep this monitored.”  
Dean is rolling his eyes, but Sam is all ears.  
The doctor explains about the medication, about what he recommends in the shape of therapy and what he means when he says _routines._  
“Too much fuss” Dean moans, looking slightly forlorn where he's laying back, trying not to fall asleep. The doctor meets Sam's eyes, and for a moment they're entirely in agreement. Depressions don't always pass on their own. Sometimes they need some help to disappear, but they can, and most likely will given some care and proper treatment.

The doctor writes out a steady prescription for anti depressants and anti anxiety medications, and Sam pledges quietly to get his brother to take them.

Then he starts planning how to get through the next month until they kick in. 


End file.
